You Opened My Eyes for Me
by sunshinetina
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's 'death'. Sherlock is still alive, though - miles away from John. Reminiscing all their memories and thinking about ending his life this time for real. Inspired by an art. :


**YOU OPENED MY EYES FOR ME**

_Bang._

Gasp.

_Bang._

He opens his ice blue eyes and watches the ceiling above his head.

_Bang._

The sound from the opened windows comes in a rush to reach his pricked up ears.

_Bang._

Deadly screams. He jumps off his bed and reaches the window quick enough to hear another shot and the desperate shrieks of a young woman, carrying her child tight to her bare-opened breasts.

He takes the cigarette pack from the table next to him and makes a machined movement, directing the cigarette at his mouth. The flame is quick, barely visible but enough to glow up his razor-shaped face and not enough to make his features well-remembered.

This is his life now. Three years ago he decided this was the best opportunity he could ever grasp. The times then were just like this – nothing has changed. Still war, still blood, still death.

When he worked in London, he used to see the battlefield, without _really _seeing it. He experienced violent deaths and fatal injuries. But the 'war' for the victims was over – he was just there some time later to witness and to prove it, to _deduce_ it. Now everything was different. He was _at the middle _of a war. No one was interested in his skills of deduction; everyone knew how his relative or her husband has died – deadly injured or violently shot by someone's opposition.

Once or twice, the thought of leaving Syria passed through his mind. He was envisioning himself with his dark suitcases all neatly packed up reaching for the shaken airport, then getting on a BA airplane and going home. _Home. Yes, __home__._

Sometimes he hated London because he was able to see his dark side only – the crimes, the deaths, the hatred. He was an outcast there – no one's child, no one's friend, no one's lover. He pretended not to care till some point. Till the point which was devastatingly destroying. Till _John_.

Now, miles and miles away from him, Sherlock sensed that not the crimes and not the deducing were the most important things in his life. It was John. It has always been him – since the very first time he saw him at St Bart's. 'It will always _be_ him,' Sherlock's mind has spoken once again, while his tongue was gracefully drawing a circular smoke at the dark emptiness in front of him. 'No matter how far I'll go, no matter how hard I'll try to escape from him, it will always be him,' raced the thoughts through his mind.

The cigarette went out. The flame was extinguished. The room was awfully hot, full with a dreadful smoking smell and relatively dark, a bit generously lightened by the full moon.

Sherlock was thinking. In fact, this was the only thing he has been doing for the last three years. He was barely going out – once, when he was at the store buying some milk ('memories that never fade away,' according to him), a building next to him was blown up, killing several people. Usually, Sherlock would pass them unnoticed, taking care of his milk not to be spilled over, but this was not the case.

'John was here,' he thought about this over and over again. Even now, this persistent thought appeared in his mind, 'John was here before meeting me. He must have seen the horror. He should be strong.'

However, Sherlock knew John was not _that_ strong. He knew John was somewhere in London now, engaged to this Mary Morstan and pretending to be happy. Sherlock shrugged. Well, maybe he was happy indeed. But his mind was racing up and up, never separating itself from the obsessive thought of looking for Sherlock. He knew that. Mycroft told him, Molly too. He knew John was searching and searching; that he never actually gave up, no matter what he kept saying to the others.

Sherlock reached for another cigarette but his hand froze in the air. His eyes were squinted – he was obviously thinking about something. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

Today was a special day – the day he first met John. He remembered his deductions about Harry; he remembered how John was amazed and how he started complimenting him almost immediately. He went on saying he was 'amazing' and 'fantastic' and, to be honest, Sherlock never actually knew the true meaning of those words. Once, he remembered (in Baskerville it was, for sure), he tried complimenting John back with those precise words. Somehow, it did not sound right to him. John, of course, accepted the apology (was it an apology?) and was touched by the compliments... but no. Those were not Sherlock's words. Too simple, too vague, too... incapable of describing his feelings towards John.

It was true – Lestrade has saved his life when was on the verge of losing it. He saved him from the drugs and from the desolate life he was having. He was always there when he needed a _saving_.

Molly was the one who fell completely and honestly in love with him. He backfired her. He shouldn't have but still... she helped him. She helped him 'commit a suicide' and helped him get to Damask. She was always there when he needed a _help_.

Mrs Hudson was the mother who always understood him, although he had one. She criticised him, of course, but was always fond of him when he was most genuinely happy. She was always there when he needed a _listener_.

Mycroft... Good old Mycroft. He was never the typical older brother but always, _always_ did his best to prevent his family from crashing down. After their father's death, he was the one who cared about him and their mother. Yet, he kept on saying 'caring is not an advantage.' But he was always there when he wanted someone to _care for him_.

And then... Then _**John**_. The only one who did understand him without calling him a 'psychopath' or a 'freak.' Initially, Sherlock thought John was just calm in nature and very, very understanding and compromising. Then, when John started ravishing him in awe, Sherlock began to think someone really did appreciate his work.

At the point when he _needed_ those compliments as much as he wanted a crime to be deduced. With every word of John's, Sherlock yearned for a 'brilliant' to be spoken in a deep, but yet childishly tickling voice, followed by 'Sherlock, it's a crime scene. It's definitely not ok to chuckle so loud.'

The compliments were the first stage. Then it became just stupendous. Sherlock waited for hours till John was up before starting his work with Scotland Yard. Sometimes it was at 10, sometimes even at noon and later – depending on what John did last night. Sherlock just refused to go to a crime scene without John – it was shallow and tremendously boring there without his companion.

Then Sherlock started panicking when John was late. Sherlock just sulked in his sofa, waiting for the hours to pass. But John was not there. It was 1a.m. or later. No sign of John. Sherlock even tried smoking but then got yelled by Mrs Hudson for turning the smoke alarm on at the middle of the night and waking her up. When John got back at about 3a.m. or something, Sherlock just died a little upon seeing the drunken smile on his companion's face before him fading away in desperate zigzag to his room.

When John started advising him and blogging about him in the most realistic (meaning, 'not always the best') way possible, Sherlock was touched. For the first time in his life someone actually cared about him. But wait! He knew John was like that when he first met him. Why was he touched_ now_?

And then Sherlock realised. For the first time in his life someone _he actually cared about_ actually cared about him. John was not just someone he used to know or knew. He was _the_ someone. And the thought of having a friend so close to his heart most genuinely scared Sherlock.

But then something cracked up in his soul. When John criticised him, he went sulking in his sofa for days. When John was displeased, Sherlock refused to eat even for weeks. When John did not want to talk to him, Sherlock got so nervous that he even started missing important facts while deducing. John has taken such a large part in his life that he could not just go on without him. He realised that when John was complimenting other people and rejecting him, he got furious and did crazy things which the ordinary people do when they are angry – drinking, smoking, breaking objects. He even tried calling his previous dealer but the echo of a voice mail saying this number does no longer exist seemingly woke him up. Disgusted, he told himself John was not worth _such_ a risk.

But John _was_. He was worth every single risk, every single tear there – on the rooftop of St Bart's, every single thought, every single heartbeat. He was not his companion, nor his friend. He was everything he has ever wished for – a true soul, absolutely opposite of his own, but yet so close to him. He was the one who opened Sherlock's eyes for himself. John opened Sherlock's heart to let him come through it and then slam its doors with a dreadful echo. He was always there when he needed _**love**_.

Now Sherlock needed love more than ever. He needed John to tell him he was 'fantastic' and he to respond that 'he was the single most breathtaking thing in his life' but he couldn't. John was not there. He has left his soul here, in the war, but this was a different soul, a different life. Not the John he used to know. Not the John he used to... he does... he loves. Not him. This was another story.

This was John's beginning; this had to be Sherlock's end. John would go on, he would stop searching, he would settle down. With God's will, he'll never forget Sherlock but in his mind he would always be 'the great genius, the best colleague and friend.' Nothing else. Nothing more.

Sherlock opens the window once again and steps out at the sill. He tries to take a deep breath but coughes– probably, because of the leftovers of the sand storm from minutes ago. He spreads his arms – he's done it once, he can do it now again. There is no pressure of Moriarty here – the pressure was of his heart only. Too high. Too high to make his fingertips feel the blood streaming through his veins. There is no Molly to save him – at the near distance there are two or three (he couldn't see the shadows properly) soldiers wandering around. There is no _John_. There is no _life_ then; no meaning. **No Sherlock Holmes.** Without John he is no one in this world. He can't go back now – there is to turning point at the end. He would do this. Reach the end, the final credits.

'Dear John...' for the second time in his life the tears on his sharp cheekbones are honest and choking him, 'You opened my eyes for me. Now I shall close them for you.'

He sniffs and takes a deep breath. Now he succeeds inhaling – a good breath to be his last one. He makes a step forward, the sand crackling under his feet.

A laser points at his heart. Sherlock stops at once. He directs his eyes at the soldiers (two of them – he sees them now) who are standing at the other end of the street with a massive gun pointing at him.

'Sir, come down!'

_Englishmen, interesting._

'Sir, come down immediately! This is an order! Sir!'

'Really? Whose order is this?'

A moment of silence. The men hesitate a bit, looking at each other, then the one with the gun coughs, clearing his throat.

'Captain John Hamish Watson's, sir. He said he can't lose you. Please, come down.'

Sherlock swallows and takes a step back. Then another one, his eyes unfollowing the soldiers' actions. He turns back just to face a short man, standing still with his civil clothing and hands behind his back.

'John?'

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'I-... I-...'

'You are _sorry_?' the short man coughs a bit and directs his dark blue eyes at him. He has not changed even a bit – the same wrinkles perfectly shaping his rough features. And, those eyes who soften them. Sherlock smiles a bit, his eyes filling up with tears. He makes a step forward, going closer and closer to John.

'I _am_.'

John nods, biting his lower lip.

'Don't do this again. This, I mean,' John points at the window, 'Just... _don't_. If you want to die, _I _can kill you. You know I am good.'

'Very good.'

'Yes, thank you.'

'The best, in fact.'

'Don't bother.'

Sherlock smiles. John's eyes answer with a reciprocal smile, while his lips stand still.

'John?'

'Yes, Sherlock? What is it?'

'I think I-...'

'You don't _think_, Sherlock. You know for sure. You always do.'

'Yes. I-... I-...'

Sherlock's right hand reaches for John's cheek while his left one follows the same path. Their eyes meet and freeze. John still stands dead serious, yet feeling his heartbeat racing up.

'Will you ever forgive me, John?'

'Yes, Sherlock. I already did.'

Sherlock caresses John's wrinkled forehead.

'Why, John?'

'Because I love you, idiot.'

Sherlock's lips replace his palm on John's forehead. John, broken and very unsteady now, hug Sherlock so tight to himself, putting his head on his shoulder. Sherlock lips just travel across the blonde hair pressed so close to his cheek. His shirt is all soaked up now.

'I love you too, John, I love you more than my life.'

There are two consecutive sobs coming from John. He presses Sherlock's body tighter to his own.

'Don't. You. Ever. Dare. Leaving. Me. Sherlock Holmes!'

'I won't. I won't, John. I promise I won't.'

_Bang._


End file.
